


The Charcoal On Your Fingertips; The Canvas Is My Skin.

by agirlnamedtruth



Category: Titanic (1997)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:12:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedtruth/pseuds/agirlnamedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The charcoal on his fingertips marks her perfect white skin, just like she wants it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Charcoal On Your Fingertips; The Canvas Is My Skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'Possession/Marking' for [Kink Bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org).

He still had charcoal on his fingers. It smudged on the clean canvas that was her pale skin just like it had done on the paper earlier. It followed his fingertips over her skin, like an indecent map. Years of her mother telling her to be proper, to be perfect, to be a _lady_ bubbled to the surface and made her lift her body, pushing it into his hands, trying to make sure the marks would stay.

For a moment, she resented that her dress was simple and easily pulled over her head, she would have loved for him to put those artistic, dirty fingers on the white strings and pull them apart. He could have put his hand on her breast again and left more smudges, ones that would stain, ones that her mother would see. But when that simple dress came off, all that was left was her skin, so she had him put his hands on it and taint the white, white skin that had never seen sunlight. Skin that only her mother, Trudy and herself should see, an in time her fiancé too. But now she was baring it for Jack again, letting him see it outside of an artist’s professional view, letting him mark it with his hands, giving it over to him.

His fingers moved lower, leaving trails over her abdomen, making her tense. It was just a reflex; she told herself and took a deep breath. Whenever Cal had tried to touch her like this she had denied him and moved away from his touch, now she moved with it, matching him touch for touch.

“I’ve never let Cal touch me like this.” She said and his eyes met hers, he looked surprised. He shouldn’t be, she thought, her and Cal weren’t married yet but then she remembered he lived a very different life to her. He had never been sheltered like she had. While she had been practicing calligraphy for wedding invitations, he had been drawing French whores.

“I’ve touched women like this before.” He admitted and she nodded, she hadn’t suspected anything different. “But I’ve never _loved_ a woman like this before.”

He pressed his lips to her hip, simply because it was the nearest part of her. She felt like claiming she was his, every inch of her, his forever but his hands were on her thighs and moving up, pushing them apart and stroking her sex. The thought got lost in the sudden sensation and she fell back against the hard wood of the car door.

She felt his fingers push inside her, gently and curling once inside, almost making her head explode. She had never felt anything even close to it before. She thought about the charcoal on his fingers and wondered if it was marking her insides like it had her skin. She hoped it was.

His fingers left her and for a second she felt empty. “You don’t have to do this.” He said and she remembered him saying that to her as she clung to the cold rail of the ship, his voice was shaking then, so was she, she was now. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I’m yours, Jack, I want to be yours. I want this.” She said and her voice held steady, she felt sure. She thought of all the things she had, all the clothes and the jewellery, the name and the money she was meant to marry, the blue rock that Cal had try to buy her with. She would give all that up to be with Jack, to have him inside her, to make love to him, to be his. She had never wanted anything truly until she met him. Now she wanted nothing and everything. She wanted a whole different life.

Jack entered her, his hands holding her waist and her sharp cry breaking into the silent room. Her mother had told her about a woman’s pain but somehow she knew it was worth it, even if nobody dared to say it. She breathed through it and it lessened, the pleasure from before winning and taking over, coursing through her like blood or air and just as vital as both.

She drew her nails over his back, marking him as hers and pouring herself into him, moving with him, pulling him deeper, saying his name in whispers and screams. Sweat beaded on her skin and she made the most unladylike noises, she begged and pleaded, she swore and blasphemed and thought, if only mother could see me now. She wasn’t one of them anymore. She was changed. She was free. She was like Jack. Her body sang with the thought, it shouted itself hoarse and soared, flying again. Her hand hit the glass, reaching stars she could have sworn were above her. She felt him come inside her, marking her again, somewhere in back of her mind she was proud. She was his. Fuck everyone else. Fuck what she was supposed to do. Fuck who she was supposed to be. 

“Fuck.” She said the word aloud, barely above a whisper, her body still catching up with her mind. She looked at him, into his eyes, staring almost, trying to take everything in. “You’re trembling.” She said, not realising she was as well.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be alright.” He said and leant in to kiss her again.


End file.
